


We are Grenades

by himitsutsubasa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Scents & Smells, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:53:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himitsutsubasa/pseuds/himitsutsubasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://himitsutsubasa.tumblr.com/post/88711401252/screaming-towards-apotheosis-in-the-not-so">Tumblr</a><br/><a href="http://screaming-towards-apotheosis.tumblr.com/post/88018759850/in-the-not-so-cracky-but-way-more-porny-plot"> screaming-towards-apotheosis:</a><br/>In the not so cracky but way more porny plot bunnies I want Chris to walk in on Peter working himself open on a huge toy with his face buried in one of Chris’s shirts.</p><p>So I did. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are Grenades

**Author's Note:**

> I can't write porn to save my life.

Chris enters the apartment silently, bare feet sliding across the entry rug. The alarm is disabled now and the door practically fell open to his lock pick set. The perks of being a living security system, he thinks as he notes the claw marks on the wall by the door. He doesn’t wonder why those are there and he knows that Peter does him the same courtesy.

For a moment, his inner thief appreciates the way the place is structured, mostly open and minimalist, which means that there is no space to hide anything and a place to hide everything. The staircase in the corner is stainless steel with glass step panels, a cleaning nightmare for the staff he knows Peter keeps. The couches are beige and with chrome rims. The tables are glass and metal. The dark, concrete floor is hidden behind a dark, brown fur rug that smells like gunpowder because Chris had, not accidentally, spilled some on it last time.

That was before he knew about the cleaning staff. He feels guilty about the cleaning staff.

Chris expects to see a wolf around, expects one to slam him into the wall for taking such liberties. He doesn’t, so Peter mustn’t be home.

How fortunate.

He slides into the main room, letting the cushions on his new socks absorb every sound. His fingers trail over the pewter accent pieces, little wolves, on the shelf that separates the room into different parts. There’s a spherical astrolabe and a book on the moon at the center of the glass table. He knows where the accent pieces, which had disappeared two weeks ago from his living room table, are now.

 

He moves through the rest of the room and up the staircase.

At the top, he can hear the stuttered breathing and Peter’s voice. It’s light, barely there, but Chris can hear the ghosts of words. Moonlight falls on his back and down the staircase he came from. There are two rooms, he knows, as well as a study. The study, the one with the sturdier, metal door, is empty. The guest room is also empty, he finds as he presses his ear to the wood. He heads down the hall to the last room.

The door is ajar. Chris peers through the crack and finds the same moonlight from the floor below pooling on the hardwood floor of the bedroom. He presses his nose into crack, smelling for aconite. There isn’t any, which makes him wonder what’s got the wolf so busy as to stop him from sensing an Argent in his home.

The door swings inward without a sound and Chris gets an eyeful of why.

Peter is sprawled over his bed, the sheets and covers of the king size mattress swirling around him in white and blue. His golden skin is lit with silvery moonlight, making him look like a statue of a man in ecstasy. Peter’s back is arched in a tantalizing curve that almost fully displays him for anyone walking in and a hand rests on a bright red cock, which is dripping wet, Chris can tell, even from this distance. The other, oh the other, is pressing something big and silicone into his ass at a punishing pace. It’s splitting him open and Peter is quietly keening for it. And those noises. Chris is half hard in his jeans already, and his fingers itch to replace that piece of plastic and make Peter scream.

That doesn’t surprise him. It’s been a long time coming, ever since he stepped onto the Beacon Hills University campus looking for any signs of supernatural life and saw a pair of bright blue eyes lock on his, saw a pair of lips twist into a smirk at his expression. It’s been since a snarky graduate student pressed into his skin and whined for him, never submitted, but whined like Chris was a treat he couldn’t have and they both knew that was true.

So it doesn’t make it hard for him to imagine that he’s the one Peter is thinking about. And oh, if Peter just moans his name right then and proves him right, then he has no qualms about it. He takes a few steps forward and oh. He sees it. Peter’s face is obscured completely, wrapped in a shirt that Chris vaguely recognizes as his own. One he thought he lost the last time they went hunting together.

Peter’s face is buried in his shirt and the wolf is moaning his name, quietly to any human, but a scream to a wolf whose hearing is so sensitive near climax.

And so his voice must be a shout when he says, “Peter.”

The wolf seizes up for a moment before the shirt slips off his face. Dark pupils stare at him, fringed with only a millimeter thick line of blue. Wide then narrow and curled at the ends. God, Chris missed that.

“Chris, are you going to lend a hand or just stand there?”

Sitting on the bed, feeling his weight sink into it because Peter is the kind to buy a foam mattress that would hug his body when he sleeps, Chris slides his hand up Peter’s leg and listens to the sound the wolf makes as his rough fingers glide over sensitive skin. It’s music.

Hands scrabble at his jacket, and he complies, whispering promises of euphoria and pain. He knows they need them both. The plastic is thrown across the room and makes a thudding sound as it lands near the trash bin, where it belongs now that Chris is there because he will make sure that Peter is ruined for anyone and everyone afterwards. What he should have done years ago.

Peter hums impatiently under him and swings a led around his waist.

Chris sends a prayer to heaven, because, as he watches Peter tilt his head back and keen as Chris slips into his body, Chris’s lips are pressed to the pulse at the exposed neck and he detects no lies when Peter breathes, “I love you.”


End file.
